


who are you to judge?

by JolyOllie



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Patrick Brewer is Gay, Slow Burn, The Roses Never Lost Their Money, an arts major writes about business, baby gay business man patrick, let patrick say fuck, like very, little fish in a big pond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:00:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28194360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JolyOllie/pseuds/JolyOllie
Summary: Patrick Brewer had been voted ‘Most Likely to Settle Down’ at his high school graduation.What a joke that had turned out to be.He’d needed a change of scene. Desperately. And while the location wasn’t exactly a dream come true, Patrick pinched himself on the daily that he – a little business major from butt-fuck-nowhere Canada – was going to be the new assistant to The Johnny Rose of Rose Video.It became clear quite quickly, though, that with Johnny came everyone else, and Patrick had most decidedly not been prepared to deal with his boss’s kids - especially when they were twenty-something socialites in their own right.Especially when they were David Rose.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd & Patrick Brewer
Comments: 34
Kudos: 109





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i've only ever been to New York once like 6 years ago on a school trip i'm sorry if i get details wrong

He didn’t like New York. It was loud and dirty, no one looked anyone in the eye, let alone smiled at each other, and the buildings were so tall that they blocked out the sun for most of the day. He lived in the shadows of giants – literally _and_ figuratively.

You learn about Johnny Rose at college – the man who turned two thousand Canadian dollars into an empire that spanned the entirety of North America and showed no signs of stopping any time soon. You study his book, _Fast Forward to Success,_ until the pages yellow with dirt from your greasy freshman fingertips and the dustcover would look better if it went through a paper shredder.

You do if you’re Patrick Brewer, anyway.

You dream of making something similar for yourself, and people laugh at you – a twelve-year-old with a ten-step plan to monopolise the dog walking market in your area _is_ pretty funny, he admits after the years have taken some sting out of the whole ordeal – but they’re encouraging. Their cheeks are pink, and their smiles are wide with the left over mirth of watching an over ambitious child say words like ‘synergy’, when they tell you, “Oh, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, haven’t you? You’ll be settled down with your millions before you know it!”

Nothing about this felt ‘settled’.

His knee wasn’t settled as it bounced anxiously up and down on the commuter train he would now be taking for the foreseeable future. An older woman glared at him over the top of her self-help book, _Unlearn Anger_. That book didn’t seem to be helping. He forcibly stopped the jiggle, though, putting an end to the tapping of the heel of his brand-new business shoe that had so offended her, but the nervous energy simply migrated, rather than dissipated. His fingers started twitching, his heart pounded in his chest so intensely that he worried the two men pressed either side of him could hear it, _feel_ it. His breathing was shallow, but he couldn’t bring himself to breathe deeper. Someone in the carriage had packed a cheese and onion sandwich and it didn’t smell very nice.

Was this going to happen _every morning?_

A trickle of sweat fell onto his eyelashes and he wiped it away quickly. He couldn’t turn up on his first day with pit stains, he _couldn’t_.

He was probably going to, though.

**.**

**.**

Pulling his jacket onto his shoulders and holding his satchel close, Patrick stared up at the glass palace in front of him. Somewhere near the top, the sun glinted against the high and pristine windows where other buildings had given up reaching. Rose Video’s offices had continued to grow where everyone else had stunted.

What a lovely metaphor, Patrick. That creativity will take you far in this fast-paced, cut-throat, numbers-based industry.

He reminded himself that Rose Video didn’t actually inhabit this _whole_ building. Just a couple of floors. He was turning it into a monolith that it didn’t need to be, that it _wasn’t_.

He steeled himself to enter the revolving door he’d been having nightmares about for the past week, but someone managed to dent his armour before he’d even taken a single step.

“Look out, buddy!” A man in a grey suit, impeccably tailored and styled, called out after knocking into Patrick and leaving him lurching for balance.

“Sorry!”

Way to sound Canadian, Pat.

Ronnie was right. These guys were going to eat him alive.

Well! he thought, feeling the hard cover of his most beloved book poking through the canvas material of his bag, No time like the present to serve up the platter.

**.**

**.**

“Patrick Brewer,” he’d said at the front desk, and the young woman’s eyes had lit up.

“Yes! We’ve been waiting for you!”

His stomach sunk to the deepest, coldest depths of the Mariana Trench.

“I was told to be here at nine. I’m so sorry if - ”

“No! No!” She laughed, batting his anxieties away like flies in a New York summer – or so he imagined. Patrick had never experienced a New York summer. He really hoped there weren’t too many flies. “It’s just been a tough week waiting for you to get here! Ever since Sam resigned we’ve all been collectively picking up the slack, and let me tell you,” she laughed again, “there’s a lot of slack to pick up.”

Patrick’s stomach only swooped to the shallow waters of the trench this time. What the hell had he gotten himself into?

“You’re about to be the most popular guy at Rose Video!” The woman said, leading him away from the wide-open spaces of the marble covered entry and towards one of… Jesus Christ, _six_ elevators?

Was that even considered a lot around here? Probably not.

Swallowing the rising feeling that he was very much out of his depth, Patrick the small-town country boy forced a tight smile across his lips.

“That’d be a first,” he joked. He really hoped she took it as a joke.

The look on her face told him that she knew exactly what he was doing. Using humour to hide all your insecurity wasn’t going to get you very far here, Patrick. She smiled, though. Even giggled – politely, he was sure.

“That’s right! You’re the guy who used to work at one of the stores!”

“As a teenager.”

“Man!” She laughed. “Mr Rose _frothed_ over your resume when he saw that.”

The elevator doors had opened and she ushered him in. An elderly woman was a few steps away from joining them when the girl – Kyomi, Patrick saw her name tag said now that they were standing still (and close) – pushed the ‘doors closing’ button and winked at him.

“Nice touch,” she said as the lift shuddered to life and began rising. Patrick could swear he heard the woman cursing outside.

“Does everyone know about my high school shelf stacking?”

“No!” Kyomi waved his fears away again, only to bring them back with a cheeky glint in her dark eyes as she said, “The Montreal branch is still a little behind on the gossip.”

He didn’t know how he’d managed to luck out making a possible friend in his first five minutes on the job, but he was bloody grateful. He was good at ribbing, good at giving and taking it. This was something he knew well. This was his comfort zone.

His anxiety only ticked up minutely with the rising floor numbers illuminated in yellow above him.

There was a resounding _DING!_ at floor six, and the chrome doors opened to reveal a less uncluttered but equally pristine collection of cubicles and rooms before him, all supervised by the imposing ROSE VIDEO sign near the largest office. This one’s walls were floor to ceiling frosted glass, and right next to the door labelled ‘Johnny Rose – CEO’ was an empty desk.

Patrick’s desk.

He swallowed the lump of alarm in his throat.

Kyomi winked at him again and led the way.

She knocked.

Patrick felt like he was about to pass out. He’d met Mr Rose once before, over a Zoom meeting at the final stage of interviewing for the job. The man was loud and confident and wildly intimidating with his heavy brow and piercing eyes.

“Yes?” That soon to be familiar nasal tone called out.

Kyomi cracked the door open (also frosted glass) and popped her head in.

“Mr Rose, Patrick Brewer has arrived.”

“Wonderful! Send him in!”

Was it too late to leave? Surely, he could drop out. He’d probably never work again with a name like Rose blacklisting you, but the impulse was there.

Kyomi grabbed his bicep in a grounding squeeze and smiled.

“I’ll be back in a bit to show you around and get you up to date with security and safety protocols and stuff.”

He inhaled.

“You’re gonna do great,” she smiled again, so warm and genuine, clapped him on the shoulder and then disappeared into the sea of power suits and half-height cubicle walls.

He exhaled.

No time like the present, indeed.

The few steps to the door felt like miles, his strides somehow feeling inch-small and impossibly long all at once. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or absolutely shitting himself when he finally (very quickly) came face to face with the black lettering that spelt out his future.

He knocked on the metal door frame.

He really should have seen this coming – like, _really_ should have – but he still jumped in surprise when Mr Rose swung the glass door open and met his gaze, eyes dark and warm and twinkling with a quiet kindness that Patrick hadn’t been able to discern over webcam.

“Patrick! Come in!”

He forced a small smile onto his no doubt painfully obviously terrified face and did as he’d been told.

“It’s good to meet you in person, Mr Rose,” he said. His voice was embarrassingly breathy, but his new boss smiled at his now extended hand.

“And you,” Mr Rose replied, giving him a handshake firm enough to ground him again after a flighty few moments.

The office was bright. Of course it was bright, it was surrounded by glass on three sides, but also held a sense of light in its decoration. There were old lamps lit around the room in various corners and on shelves and side tables casting a multitude of funny looking shadows. The knickknacks to which these shadows belonged were diverse and extensive – lines of books (his own included… a few times), old photos of children and dated storefronts, a headshot of his wife that he could have printed off of IMDB but probably didn’t, and many, _many_ awards (including something Patrick recognised as a little league trophy that he’d have to get a closer look at some time).

The chair Mr Rose offered him a seat in was a classic Chesterfield, the tacks polished within an inch of their lives and the leather squeaking as he sunk into the upholstery. It was comfortable, though, as was everything in this office, he assumed. Johnny Rose looked like he appreciated the finer things in life, especially the soft and lavish ones.

“How’s New York treating you?” Mr Rose asked as he sat himself on the other side of the desk.

Patrick cleared his throat. “It’s very, um… different to what I’m used to.”

Mr Rose laughed. “I imagine so! Canadian boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah! What part?”

“Ontario.”

“Toronto?”

“Just outside of, actually.”

The older man nodded. “Good. Good.”

Patrick shuffled in his seat.

“Well!” Mr Rose announced after it became clear that neither man knew what to say. “Kyomi will show you the ropes and then uh… we’ll get to work! We’ve got a meeting on Wednesday with a big tech company and I need a compilation of previous minutes so that I can uh… work out some kind of agenda.”

His eyebrows furrowed into something that looked very pensive, possibly out of his depth.

Patrick had no idea what Rose Video’s internal server looked like, let alone how to find and decipher minutes that someone else had made within it, but his boss looked very tired all of a sudden, so he summoned up his sunniest disposition and tried to exude capability.

“Of course.”

“Good. I’ll see you in a minute then.”

Patrick couldn’t help but smile – almost laugh, but not quite. He didn’t think that joke was intentional (he really had a terrible sense of humour, didn’t he?). He nodded and shifted to lift himself out of this dangerously deep and comfortable chair before he stopped himself for a moment.

“Mr Rose,” he began, unsure of how to actually articulate himself.

“Yes?”

“I know I wasn’t the most qualified person to apply for this job.”

Two thick black eyebrows rose to merge with a greying hairline.

“Patrick, I - ”

“No, I definitely wasn’t. I know my resume, and I have a pretty good idea of how competitive it is around here.”

Mr Rose’s eyebrows dropped a little at that, and the twinkle in his eye dampened slightly, but never diminished.

“Thank you for taking a chance on me. I will do everything in my power to do right by you and this company. I promise you that.”

The smile that graced Johnny Rose’s face wasn’t the overly polished and polite one Patrick had been greeted by a few minutes ago. This one was gentle, and leaked into his eyes through the deep crevices of his laughter lines.

“Well, thank you, Patrick. You’re a smart young man with a good head on your shoulders. Anyone with any sense could see that.”

“And that anyone was you?”

That once gentle smile cracked into something blinding – warm like the sun and just as vital.

“Damn right!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Author creates a universe in which Patrick Brewer invents Netflix!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to those who celebrate!

From the looks of these minutes (and some of them really didn’t seem to be very trustworthy), Johnny Rose had no idea how to begin a successful collaboration with Patchwork Tech and everyone he’d been talking to about it had been bowing to seniority rather than actually helping him out. Patrick’s temples throbbed at the thought of what this meeting on Wednesday was going to look like. He was pretty new to all this, but something told him that embarrassing yourself and looking like a complete luddite wasn’t great business practice.

He had to help. It was his _job_ to help.

With a compilation of the most useful, as well as the most hopeless, minutes in hand, Patrick knocked on the door.

“Yes?”

“Mr Rose,” he said, making a swift entrance.

Mr Rose’s face lit up.

“Patrick! Done with the minutes?”

“Yes, and,” he rushed through with it before he could chicken out, “I have some concerns.”

Mr Rose’s face dimmed.

“Oh… well, um… that’s not good…”

“Sorry if I was speaking out of turn.”

Shit. He probably could have sugar coated that better. Probably _should_ have.

“No, no! Please,” he was offered a seat. “What’s on your mind?”

Patrick buffered for a second. He’d learnt an entire interface yesterday and then scoured through it to find every mention of Rose Streaming he could. He’d then analysed every ounce of it. He’d then come to the conclusion that it wasn’t going to be competitive without major reworking. He’d then gone home and lost quite a few hours sleep trying to come up with said reworks because he knew, not only in business but in pretty much everything, that people tend to take criticism a lot better if its paired with offers of improvement and assistance.

He’d written this out over breakfast. He’d read it over on the train. He knew what he was about to say, and he knew it was right. He just needed to _say it._

“I’m not convinced with the idea.”

To Mr Rose’s credit, not much changed in his expression, but his little “Oh” hung heavy.

“I agree with the basic premise,” he barrel rolled on through. If he was going to get fired on his second day, he might as well do it with gusto. “Interflix currently has a monopoly on the market that we’d be crazy not to try and interrupt, and with the Rose name on the venture, I think people would be more than ready to trust us with their entertainment. They have been for years. You of all people know the power of brand loyalty.”

Mr Rose nodded. He hadn’t been kicked out yet. That was a good sign, surely.

“But,” here came the killer, “simply moving the concept of a video store online isn’t going to cut it. Interflix charges a monthly fee for unlimited access to their library. We can’t compete with that cost/benefit whilst charging per film or TV series.”

“Okay,” Mr Rose finally interrupted. “I see what you’re saying, Patrick.” He sighed, steepling his fingers together. “But we can’t just copy Interflix’s medium. Not only is that not good business practice, it’s not _good.”_

“I know, Mr Rose, but that’s not what I’m suggesting we do!”

His boss blinked, eyebrows risen. Patrick had never felt so _ballsy._ Where was all this energy coming from? He was looking the definition of success in the eye and telling it to _do better._

“What _are_ you suggesting we do, Patrick?”

He took a breath. He smiled. He was laying all his cards on the table, and he was about to go big or go bust, but he was confident. He was about to bow out on something he was _so_ confident about. This idea was _good_ , and actually, if Johnny Rose didn’t see it that way, then fuck it, maybe someone else will.

“Currently, Interflix only hosts external content – as in,” Patrick clarified at Mr Rose’s bewildered expression, “everything on their platform is made elsewhere, for other reasons, and then they buy partial rights to it for streaming.”

Mr Rose began nodding.

“Interflix is popular because you can get a lot of things in one place. People are lazy, they like things that make life easier.”

A chuckle. “That’s true,” Mr Rose said, taking a sip of water out of a cut crystal glass.

“But everything you can get on there, you can technically get somewhere else.”

The nodding continued.

“What if we made something you couldn’t get anywhere else. Yes, we buy partial rights to other titles – that’ll get people signing up. But what keeps them,” Patrick leant forward. He body felt like it was on fire, he was sweating, he was probably shaking a little too, but his vision was very, _very_ clear.

“What keeps them are Rose videos. Originals.”

“Yes!”

“You’re suggesting I start a _production company?”_

Yes, essentially, that was what Patrick was not only _suggesting_ , but outright _pitching._ This would be a way forward for Rose Video in a world outgrowing the company – at least in its current state. _Surely_ Mr Rose could see that. Why else would he be looking to branch out?

“I know this isn’t what you had in mind when you told me to compile minutes for Wednesday’s meeting, and this isn’t necessarily something that involves Patchwork directly anyway, but if we’re gonna get this idea off the ground, it has to be sustainable, Mr Rose.”

Another sip of water, the crystal clinking on a Rose Video resin coaster.

“Patrick…” His tone was… weary. It was heavy and Patrick was now terrified that he’d fucked up the one good thing going on in his life right now by getting over excited and overstepping the mark. “I took a big risk taking you on. You were self-aware enough to recognise that, and for that I applaud you…”

Oh fuck.

“I can’t be sure…”

He could have dialled it back. He _should_ have watered the pitch down and then built it up as development got underway. Why did he always jump in headfirst? Oh, _fuck._

“But it may just have been the best risk I’ve ever taken.”

“Oh, fuck!”

Fuck, he’d said that out loud!

Mr Rose just laughed. “Son, it’s a great idea! Don’t quote me on anything yet, because _wow_ , there’s a lot of unknowns here and a lot to work out, but…” He sighed. He looked happy. He looked really _happy_. And _excited_.

Patrick could only imagine the performance he himself was putting on right now.

“I’ll tell you what.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Get my buddy Bob Iger on the phone, would you? He owes me a few favours and I think I’m about to cash some of them in.”

“Of course, Mr Rose,” Patrick said, standing up from his seat and practically speed walking his way to the door. His face felt like it was about to split in half, his cheeks were burning with the uncontrollable effort of grinning so wide he must’ve looked like a little moon-faced Cheshire Cat.

“And!”

He paused at the doorway.

“This whole ‘Mr Rose’ thing is going to get real complicated and annoying. Just call me Johnny.”

Johnny Rose of Rose Video had just invited Patrick Brewer of mid-Ontario to… to call him by his first name. Okay, yes, when put like that, it didn’t seem all that monumental, but Patrick was pretty close to bursting at this point. It wasn’t even lunch time yet.

God, he _had_ to call Stevie.

But first he had to stay cool. No losing his head around his boss _(Johnny)._ That was the first lesson at business school.

Well, maybe second - the first was to pay your taxes.

“Sure.”

**.**

**.**

Over the grainy video feed on his laptop, Patrick watched Stevie pour her third glass of wine.

“Soooo,” she drawled, “how’s New York?”

He blew out a messy raspberry as he rolled his eyes, and laughed as his friend grimaced and pretended to wipe her screen clean.

“Loud. Cold. Busy.”

“Mm, fun!”

“I live on the fifth floor and I can still hear car horns!”

Stevie gasped. “That’s _terrible_ , Patrick!”

“Okay...”

“Who’d have thought? Cars? And their horns? In the big city?!”

“And how’s our little city?” He asked. He wanted to know _\- so bad -_ and also wanted to not be the centre of Stevie’s field of mockery anymore.

He wanted to know if Roland had fixed the starter chord to his lawnmower after yanking the rope’s handle off trying to prove that it would work as propulsion for ‘land water skis’, and if Jocelyn had forgiven him for using her serving plates as said ‘land water skis’. Were Twyla’s mozzarella sticks still somehow more stick than mozzarella? Had Bob’s wife left him yet?

He felt bad for that last one, but was honestly perplexed as to how no one else in Schitt’s Creek had seemed to notice that that marriage was one rock away from a landslide.

“Quiet,” Stevie replied. “People miss you.”

“People?”

“Mhm,” she hummed through a mouthful of Cabernet.

“Even Ronnie?”

Stevie laughed into her glass and ended up having to wipe her nose and left cheek with a sleeve. The plaid pattern was the same colour as the wine, and it’s not like she cared much anyway.

“God, no. I think she danced in the dust your tired kicked up.”

It was Patrick’s turn to laugh at that.

“Even you?” He broached. He was pushing it, he knew. Over the almost-year he’d spent in Schitt’s Creek, Patrick had learnt that Stevie Budd didn’t do heartfelt admissions, or admissions of any kind, really. The last time Stevie had shown an emotion beyond sarcasm or sadistic joy had been the day he left, and even then, she hadn’t let him see it. He’d noticed the puffy eyes, though. He always noticed those.

The young woman on his webcam plonked her glass down by her computer and looked directly at him, which was an unnerving feat since he knew she couldn’t actually see him when she did that.

“Patrick,” she said, “do you remember the day you booked into the motel and asked for a towel and then helped me finish my game of solitaire when you realised I wasn’t going to get it for you until I’d won?”

His lips twitched upwards. “Yes.” Of course he did. It was one of the best things he’d done since leaving home. Everyone needed someone like Stevie in their corner, and Patrick had somehow been blessed with the original and ever-scornful best.

“I miss your freakish puzzle solving skills,” she finished, swallowing the last dregs of her drink.

He laughed at the memory, laughed at how hollow he felt and how much he missed being able to walk ten minutes in any direction and wind up at the front door of someone who’d welcome him in with open arms. He missed Twyla’s sticky mozzarella sticks that turned back into a ball if left for more than five minutes. He missed being a Jazzaguy, even if Ronnie had always moaned that they didn’t need another higher register singer. He missed Ronnie’s attitude that he’d deserved for a while but maybe not this long. She held an incredible grudge, and he gave her credit for it where it was due.

“I miss you too.”

Ever the sentimentalist, Stevie rolled her eyes as she scoffed and poured her fourth, rather large, glass of wine.

“Hooked up with any New Yorkers yet?”

“I’ve been here for a week.”

“Exactly.”

Patrick felt his face heat up in the split second it took for him to realise he didn’t really have a rebuttal for that. He was young, he was not _un_ attractive, he had a good job, and he was surrounded by people, most of which were in the same boat.

It’s not like his eye hadn’t been caught. It had been. Plenty of times. But when he stands in the middle of a bustling Wall Street, he feels very aware of the fact that his suit is off the rack, not tailored, and he went to a university that was more wisteria than Ivy League, and his apartment is barely a one bedroom, and he sometimes has to control the urge to say ‘ey’.

“I’m not like that, Stevie! You know that!”

She rolled her eyes again.

“How am I supposed to prepare for a good Manhattan lay without intel?”

“Well, for starters, I live in Queens.”

“Ugh.”

“Why?” He asked, eyebrows lifted cheekily in a way Stevie had told him multiple times made her want to spit in his face. “Are you planning on visiting?”

“No!” She very forcefully denied, even if her dark eyes promised something very different. “Definitely not if it’s a city of prudes!”

He laughed.

“I’m sure it’s not. I just haven’t found the sexy people yet.”

“You’re not looking hard enough,” his friend pouted.

He couldn’t help thinking that Stevie suited New York better than he did. She was brash and quick witted and had definitely kicked some people in the dick before.

“Seriously,” she continued. “You’re kicking ass at your job, but I will _not_ let you be one of those guys who keeps a sleeping bag under their desk!”

“I would never do that.”  
“Not yet! But Johnny Rose got where he is today because all he does is work. Seriously, I bet he barely knows his kids’ names.”

“I’m sure that’s not - ”

“Don’t let these people burn you out, Patrick.”

He blinked. He really was tired, and it was only day two. He was already missing sleep to keep ahead of the game. He had something to prove, yes, but…

“Are you listening, Brewer? Life isn’t all about the bottom line!”

There was something missing in his chest when he realised what he was about to tell Stevie. It was an undefined shape and size but weighed him down, which was odd. If you’ve lost a piece, shouldn’t you feel lighter? Uncomfortably light, sure, but still… having something removed means you weigh less, not more. Why was he so weary carrying around something that he didn’t have?

“There isn’t anything else here for me.”

The screen glitched as Stevie pursed her lips. She wasn’t happy with the answer, but Patrick didn’t have another one to give. He couldn’t even lie.

“Then find something,” was all she said, and that was the end of their conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY IT'S TAKING SO LONG FOR PATRICK AND DAVID TO MEET WE'LL GET THERE SOON I PROMISE


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moira Rose is in the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asdfghj writing moira is so fun but so hard i hope i did her justice

Patrick was met on Wednesday morning with Kyomi rushing him as he passed through their office building’s revolving doors. If he was going to find something for himself in this place, she was probably a good start. Stevie might not approve, them being so connected by work and all, but the woman’s eyes were bright and Patrick smiled when he met them, and that surely counted for something.

“Big day today!” She sung out.

“Sure is!”

As he walked towards the bank of elevators on the far side of the foyer, she followed him, clearly on the edge of telling him something but unable to craft the sentence to her satisfaction. She kept looking at him expectantly and then glancing away, chewing at her lip and bouncing on her toes.

He reached the elevators. He pushed the button. He waited. Chrome doors opened.

“Just so you know,” Kyomi called out in a rush before they were separated, “Moira’s here!”

The doors closed between them before Patrick could ask her a squeaky, “What?”

Moira Rose?

_Moira Rose._

**.**

**.**

Before the elevator doors were even open, Patrick could hear her.

“John! Springtide is nearly completely upon us but your sweet departmental headquarter is still hunkered down like a grotto of hibernation!”

He couldn’t help but smile at her infamous vocabulary, and set up his desk for the day as he listened to Johnny placate his lovely wife.

“Moira, please! You know what happened last time we opened the window!”

Patrick’s eyes widened automatically at the millions of images that sentence produced in his brain, and Tammy, one of the marketing execs, snorted as she walked by.

“What happened last time they opened the window?” He asked, voice portraying such naïve wonder that he was shocked the woman didn’t pull out a lollipop from her file and pat him on the head before telling him to run off and play.

She looked both ways along the corridor and then, judging it to be not only safe but worth her time, she trotted over to Patrick’s desk.

“Bird flew in,” she whispered, being careful not to alert the Roses in the room next to them of the gossip happening outside. “I wasn’t there, but stories range from common pigeon to bald eagle.”

Patrick’s eyes widened impossibly more at that.

“Either way,” Tammy continued, “a bunch of paperwork got crapped on and torn up in the fight to get it out again. Took ages to file through everything and replace it.”

The words she was saying were, in all truth, pretty funny, but her face looked haunted by memories of handling and salvaging bird-soiled contracts and agreements.

“Jesus!”

“Yeah.” She pulled her lower lip to the side in an exaggerated grimace and flitted her eyes over to the dark, and in one case, rather oddly shaped, silhouettes in the frosted window. “I’d go in there and distract her before she wins the battle, if I were you.”

He puffed out, preparing himself to meet the maelstrom woman known by so many gossip magazines. Tammy started making her way back to her own office before a thought stopped him, so he tried to stop her.

“Were you ever me?”

Her face was quizzical before it dawned into understanding.

“Oh, this?” She pointed to basically everything surrounding Patrick.

He nodded.

“God, no!” She laughed. “I think you’re a saint!”

“Right,” he smiled. “Sorry for asking, I just…” Just what? What was he looking for? “’S kinda weird not having someone to learn off of or… shadow, yknow. In the deep end!”

Tammy smiled. She was a little older, and the lack of laughter lines around her eyes told Patrick that she was leaning towards just being polite now that there wasn’t anything salacious to catch her attention.

“You’re still here,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re doing fine.”

She pointed towards Johnny’s door and looked at him expectantly before finally leaving, her sensibly chunky heels making soft thudding sounds as they contacted the carpet with each step.

If his mother knew what Patrick was about to do, she be squealing and fanning herself dramatically, demanding he come back out with an autograph and a picture and tell her all about how wonderful Moira Rose was to meet in the flesh. _Sunrise Bay_ had been an ever-present staple of the Brewer household while he was growing up. His mum had watched it every afternoon between picking him up from school and cooking dinner, and, in an almost Pavlovian way, Patrick had started doing his homework whenever the god-awful title tune started playing. His dad had thought it was the greatest waste of a television slot every produced, but reruns of the serial had gotten him through many late-night cramming sessions in college, and to this day he still put ‘Best Of’ YouTube compilations on when he was struggling to concentrate.

“Calm down,” he told his mother, although she wasn’t actually here, so it sounded an awful lot like he was saying it to himself.

He knocked on the door before entering.

Moira Rose was wearing an extravagant pantsuit, the fabric almost mohair in nature, with shoulder pads jutting out far enough to put a good foot and a half between her and any mortal in the area. Her hat was worthy of Boy George - so worthy, in fact, that Patrick almost didn’t notice the belt cinching her waist that looked to be worth more than every one of his possessions combined. It caught the light of one of Johnny’s many lamps and blinded Patrick for a moment.

“Is he having a seizure? John, call nine-one-one!”

“No, Mrs Rose! I’m fine!” He stepped out of the way of the dangerously clear crystals and managed to stop blinking and squinting enough to offer a friendly, unseized, smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She laughed. “Oh, yes, I’m sure it is!”

He held out his hand in an offer to shake hers, but she simply placed her fingers into his palm like they were preparing for a waltz. Patrick supposed that, if everything he’d heard was true, interacting with Moira Rose _was_ an intricate dance. It took every thread of common sense in his body not to bow like he’d seen people do in those period pieces he and his mother watched on rainy Sunday afternoons.

There was a brief pause in the momentum of the interaction as Moira looked him up and down but refused to let go of his hand. His heart beat a little faster under the piercing gaze.

“You must be the new clerk John was telling me about!”

“ _Assistant,_ yes. Moira, this is Patrick!”

She looked as though that information hadn’t even registered as incoming, let alone entered her brain.

“I had no idea he was quite so callow!” She said to her husband. Patrick wondered if she was even aware that he was still there. “Why,” she looked at him (so she must’ve been aware), “he’s barely a stripling!”

Patrick was a business major. He didn’t know what these words meant. She could have been telling him his father smelled of elderberries and he’d be none the wiser.

Suddenly her attention was turned fully to him. She stepped into his space (bumping his forehead with the brim of her oversized fedora) and took him firmly by the shoulders.

“Peter - ”

“Patrick.”

“Don’t you let John boss you around!” She seemed very serious. Patrick wondered if this was her version of maternal instinct. Lord protect her children if it was. “He gets very finicky when there’s a big deal to be done, but you mustn’t let him steal that sweet puerility I see in you.”

“My what?”

Johnny guided her gently back to his side, smiling tightly.

“Thank you, sweetheart! I’m sure Patrick will… take that to heart. Hopefully not too much, because I am his boss so I should be able to boss him around a _little –_ ”

Patrick nodded reassuringly. Once he’d googled everything Moira had said he’d work out which bits to apply to daily life and which to politely tuck away for ‘safekeeping’.

“- But I’m sure he’s wondering what you’re doing here!”

Patrick shrugged. “Does there need to be a reason for a wife to visit her husband at work?”

Moira gasped. “Aren’t you wise beyond your years!”

“Actually I’m th- ”

“Moira’s going to be helping us out today at the meeting,” Johnny announced, and Patrick probably would have appreciated a few hours to unpack how that was going to work and how he was going to deal with it, but as it stood, he probably had thirty minutes at most.

“When I told her about your brilliant idea, she leapt at the chance to offer her expertise and, well… We’d be crazy not to use it, wouldn’t we?”

Patrick nodded, probably a little too hard but he didn’t think anyone would notice. “Of course! You have _years_ of experience, Mrs Rose.”

“Not too many, I hope!”

“No! No! The perfect amount!”

Moira scoffed. “Flatterer.”

Patrick blanched. “I’m so sorry, I - ”

“No, no,” she deflected. “It’s the _perfect amount!”_

She laughed. Johnny joined in. Patrick hoped that the instruction his brain sent to his mouth made it through in an appropriate time.

**.**

**.**

The boardroom table was split down the middle. On one side sat representatives of Patchwork Tech – all around Patrick’s age and incredibly intimidating for the fact. He assumed computers were a young person’s game – either that or he was further behind in his ten-year plan than he’d realised. On the other were an older crowd – producers and studio executives from every major production company Patrick had been able to chase down on such short notice (and a few that Johnny had pulled some very taught strings to bring in). They eyed each other cautiously, unsure as to why they’d all been brought together, as ramshackle a group as it seemed, to meet for Johnny Rose.

Patrick’s job today, essentially, was to push some buttons and make sure the slideshow didn’t crash. Easy enough. Meeting the eye-lines of these tycoons as he entered the room, though, his stomach was in knots.

**.**

**.**

Shaking ten people’s hands in succession was a little tiring on the wrist and a little clammy in the palm. Moira gave up about two shakes in, and Patrick kind of wished he could follow suit, but Johnny Rose was as put together and upright as ever, so he kept going.

After bidding everyone a farewell, Moira announced that her work was done and she was leaving the strapping businessmen to their drudgery.

“Goodbye, Mrs Rose.”

“Bye, Moira!”

“Goodbye, John!” She called, voice carrying perfectly through the cavernous office, and disappeared into one of the elevators (after someone rushed over and pushed the button for her.)

“Well!” Johnny sighed. “How do you think that went, Patrick?”

From the looks of it, Patrick hadn’t been the only one thrown for a bit of a loop having Moira at the meeting, but other than a few questionable exclamations and odd ‘re-enactment demonstrations’, the energy in the room had been positive. He was quietly confident. 

“Pretty well.”

The older man smiled. “I think so too. I was right about you,” he said as he slipped back into his office to consolidate and begin finalising. “Very good head on your shoulders.”

The hundreds of knots Patrick’s intestines had managed to wrap themselves up in all slowly released as he heard the click of Johnny’s door closing. This had been his first big outing as The Assistant. No one had died and the building hadn’t burned down, but perhaps more importantly, Rose Video still stood on good, and hopefully improving, ground.

He slumped into his chair and breathed freely for the first time all day.

“Peter!”

He jumped at the loud whisper in his ear, knocking his knee against the underside of the desk and jostling a mug full of pens.

“Mrs Rose?”

“Forgive me for the theatrics, but I’m sure you understand the requirement for reticence.”

He did not, but he wasn’t about to admit it.

“You seem to be a highly capable appointee, so I am confident you have your nose to the most distinguished of grindstones apropos John’s upcoming eve of natality - ”

“His - ”

“But I would suggest booking our large parlour and private chef sooner rather than later. One never knows what might come up, but if it is penned in our housekeeper’s calendar, then one can avoid any unfortunate disharmonisations.”

_What on God’s green –_

“Of course, Mrs Rose.”

“Very good.”

She got up from where she’d been kneeling by the half wall and waved goodbye in that delicate way that involved almost no wrist movement at all. She appeared entirely centred, glamorous, and poised once again.

Patrick waved goodbye in that way that new assistants do when they’ve just realised that they have to plan their boss’ birthday party in – according to his frantic search on Wikipedia as soon as Moira was out of sight – _nine days._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marcy Brewer has an account on the Sunrise Bay fan forum change my mind


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frantic phone calls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> teeny little POV change at the end here, lemme know if it works or not!

Seven buzzes. Three more and Patrick was going to hang up, he decided.

Eight buzzes.

_“Hello?”_

“Hi! Is this Antonio Marcia?”

_“Yes, it is.”_

The man’s voice was higher than he’d been expecting, but Antonio seemed to make up for what he lacked in depth with brusqueness. Patrick supposed that high-stakes professional kitchens weren’t the place for the softly spoken or overly verbose, but the chef’s curt demeanour still caught him somewhat off guard. He wasn’t making this call to make a new friend, though, he reminded himself. This was purely professional, and if Chef Marcia wanted to work this way, he was going to accommodate.

“Hi! My name is Patrick Brewer. I’m calling on behalf of the Rose family - ”

He was cut off by a loud, crackling groan over the speaker.

_“What is it now?”_

“Um… Well I was wondering if you were free for the 29th \- ”

_“For Mr Rose’s birthday?”_

“Yes.”

_“Yes. How many people?”_

“What?”

_“How many people am I cooking for?”_

“Um… I’m not sure yet. I just wanted to check your availability.”

_“Well, I’m free.”_

“Gr – um, great!”

_“Call me back when you know how many so I can order ingredients, but if you leave it too long I’m not responsible.”_

“Fair enough! Thank y - ”

Patrick Brewer was hung up on for the first time since his brief stint working at a call centre during college.

**.**

**.**

Two buzzes. Patrick steeled himself for another abrasive interaction.

_“The Rose residence.”_

“Ms Ortega?”

_“… Yes...”_

“Hi! I’m Patrick, Mr Rose’s new assistant at Rose Video - ”

 _“Oh!”_ The woman sighed in relief, the sudden rush of air muffling the microphone for a second.

“Is – is everything okay?”

_“Yes, yes! How can I help you, Patrick?”_

She seemed much… warmer than his previous conversationalist. Her voice was bouncy, rising and falling with the weight of a skeletal leaf in the breeze. Her soft accent warmed her words and he couldn’t help but smile listening to her speak.

“Um, well, Mrs Rose implied that I was planning Mr Rose’s birthday party and she mentioned something about booking a parlour?”

_“Oh, yes, I can do that for you!”_

“Really? That easy? Thank you so much!”

He heard the click of a pen on the other end of the line.

_“You’re leaving it a bit late, no?”_

“Well, Mrs Rose only ‘implied’ it this morning, so…”

Luckily for Patrick, Johnny kept a little book (a physical _book)_ of contacts that he had full access to. It had only taken a short dig to find Elena’s name under ‘Housekeeping – head’.

He heard her giggle. _“Welcome to the team, Patrick.”_

**_._ **

**_._ **

He was definitely in over his head. When Elena had asked him what theme they’d be using this year, he’d replied, “Birthday,” and then wanted to climb inside the card pocket of his phone case and live there forever. She’d laughed and told him she’d keep an eye out for any hints from the couple over the next week. He’d thanked her profusely. She seemed very nice - unlike Antonio Marcia, ex-head chef at a Michelin Star restaurant in Italy and now private chef at the Rose’s beck and call.

It was an interesting career choice, Patrick had to admit, but he wasn’t about to ask.

All he needed to tie up the basics of planning now was the guest list. Then he could let Antonio know (probably via text. He was kind of scary and Patrick didn’t want to make more of a fool of himself by putting his foot in his mouth the way he seemed to be so good at).

“Mr Rose?”

The man looked up from the paperwork on his desk.

“Johnny.”

“Yes! Right. Johnny. Sorry!”

He smiled. “What can I do for you, Patrick?”

“Are you busy? Because this can wait.”

“Well, so can this!” Johnny declared as he shoved the pile away from himself. “Between you and me, you’d be doing me a favour.”

It had only been near enough to a week since Patrick had started his new job at Rose Video, and he didn’t want to jinx it, but he felt like he might be falling into his stride at the company. He’d had as good a start as anyone could hope for and was now starting to feel a little more comfortable in the insanely large and undoubtably expensive office. Johnny had been so determined for Patrick to feel at home and appreciated, it felt almost rude not to play along.

“Right. Well, it’s about your birthday?”

Johnny looked surprised, like he hadn’t expected Patrick to know about the event, let alone be asking questions while holding a notepad and pencil close to his chest.

“The guest list, to be more specific.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, so, um… who do you want to come?”

“Oh… well, with how late you arrived, I wasn’t really expecting… but um…” He took a breath and sighed heavily, eyebrows raising with the weight of having to consider something so colossal at a moment’s notice. “Well,” he began, “the Patchwork and film execs would be a good start. We want to keep building those relationships.”

“Sir, this _is_ your birthday, not a business mixer.”

Johnny’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Well, _my_ dad’s birthday parties are always full of his cousins and friends from lawn bowls and stuff… Of course,” Patrick added on frantically when he realised just how dissimilar these situations were and how big a foot he was putting in his mouth, “he’s not the CEO of a huge multinational but… um…”

With his eyebrows slowly lowering themselves and his eyes returning to a more normal size, Johnny began nodding.

“No… I think you’re right, Patrick.”

“I am?”

“Yeah! Yeah. I mean, hell, usually I don’t even get to say ‘hi’ to everyone that comes. This might be a nice change!”

“Please don’t let my expectations or experience restrict - ”

“Patrick,” Johnny levelled, “it has been _decades_ since I had a birthday party surrounded by people I actually – well, let’s just say this’ll be a nice return to some old-fashioned good fun.”

Was he going to say he usually celebrated with people he didn’t even _like?_

Patrick cleared his throat. “So, who should I put down?”

“The golf and yachting crowds, Moira, of course, and yourself!”

“Me?”

“Only if you want to come!”

“Mr – Johnny, I’d love to come! I just… wasn’t expecting it.”

“Well, put yourself down, and give yourself a plus one.”

His boss winked at him. Patrick’s boss _winked_ at him.

Johnny probably interpreted the flush spreading across his cheeks as some kind of bashful recognition of his… partner. Really, Patrick was closer to being mortified that, if he was allowed to bring someone, the act of _not_ bringing a guest was going to prompt questions that inevitably led to people finding out that, actually, he didn’t have any _friends_ in this city, let alone _more-than-friends_.

“Is that all?” He asked, hoping to redirect some of this energy back onto the man of the hour.

Said man pondered for a second, staring into the middle distance to his right. “Yeah, I think so.”

Patrick’s eye was caught by the photos sitting up on the shelf behind Johnny’s desk as he followed his gaze. Children – a boy and a girl, the boy a little taller and, Patrick assumed, a little older. They were young in the pictures, with different eighties and nineties fashions accompanying their various disgruntled and excited faces. A particular one of the two standing with their arms around each other’s shoulders as they squinted into what looked to be midday Mediterranean sun was particular endearing. They were beautiful kids. Probably closer to Patrick’s age now, but still. Charming.

“What about your kids?” 

“Oh, well, yeah, if they can come.”

Patrick couldn’t help the way his eyebrows rose at that.

“They’re very busy people!”

“Of course, yeah!”

“But put them down with plus ones too. I never have any idea who they’re dating. It’s so confusing.”

Patrick barely held in a snort as he wrote what he was told. Clearly those sweet little kids weren’t quite so sweet anymore.

“I’ll get right on that, Mr Rose.”

**.**

**.**

The yachting and golfing friends had been a breeze, intrigued by the intimate nature of the party and clearly incredibly pleased with themselves to be invited to such an event. Moira had said she’d check her calendar.

Then it had been time to call Johnny’s children, David and Alexis.

Alexis’ phone had gone straight to voicemail – something to do with the Prussian Empire, and if you were Ted Dansen calling about his vintage swimming goggles with the gold leaf and engraved lenses, that she’d already told you - she had nothing to do with it and didn’t even know where Fergie had hidden them, anyway.

He’d left a message and hoped for the best.

Up next was David Rose.

 _“Hello?”_ Came a smooth and bright masculine voice after a couple of rings.

“Hi!” Patrick swallowed nervously. “Is this David?”

 _“Yeah,”_ David replied, sounding a little off put. _“And who is this?”_

Patrick swallowed again. “Oh, um, I’m Patrick Brewer. I’m your dad’s assistant.”

_“My dad’s assistant is called Sam.”_

“Uh, yeah! He used to be! But I’m his new one!”

_“Oh.”_

He couldn’t place whatever the mysterious tone drenching David’s voice was, especially not over the phone, but something seemed to have shifted in the man after finding that out.

 _“Well… What do you need from me?”_ He continued, picking up where he’d left off almost seamlessly.

Almost.

“Well, it’s Mr Rose’s birthday at the end of the month, so I’m inviting you to his party.”

David hummed hesitantly. _“Mm, I’m gonna need to have a look at the rest of the VIP list before I make any promises on that, thanks.”_

“You – It’s not really that kind of party.”

Silence hung over the line.

_“What kind of party is it, then? Are people just walking in off the street?”_

“No! No, it’s just a smaller, more… quiet event. Sixty people, tops.”

_“Sounds depressing.”_

“Your dad’s actually really excited about it.”

_“Not a huge selling point!”_

When Patrick had imagined what a millionaire’s family dynamic would be like, he probably should have expected this. Yes, Johnny had pictures of his kids in his office, but who’s to say he was even there when they were taken? David didn’t sound juvenile – there was a confidence and timbre in his voice that only came with a few years under the belt – so this wasn’t some college kid being determined to distance himself from his family in an effort to prove something. They clearly just weren’t that close. Patrick couldn’t imagine missing his dad’s birthday, couldn’t imagine putting conditions on his attendance of the party.

“Look,” Patrick sighed, “it’s on the 29th at 7:30. You’re welcome to bring a plus one - ”

David continued humming along absent-mindedly as details were listed off – “ _Mhm, mhm.”_

“And I just wanna say,” Patrick finished with, “I really do think it would mean a lot to him if you came. It’s just friends and family. It’d be nice to have family there.”

_“Okay. Noted. I will… keep that in mind! Thanks so much for letting me know.”_

“Thank you for your time, Mr Rose.”

_“You’re welcome.”_

**.**

**.**

David sat and watched in disbelief as his sister took off her studded Valentinos and pulled her feet up onto his couch.

_Incorrect._

She rolled her eyes when she saw the unimpressed glare directed towards her bare toes (which were _very_ incorrect, even if they were painted a lovely shade of teal).

“Oh my God, David!” Alexis whined. “Your furniture is like, _crazy_ uncomfortable. I’m doing my best to enjoy being here.”

“By all means, leave!”

“No!” She shushed. “I feel like we haven’t talked in forever! We have so much to catch up on!”

“We haven’t talked because we don’t talk. This is not a thing we do! What are you doing here?”

“Ugh, fine!” Alexis groaned, as if her brother had pulled this admission from her with an old-fashioned tooth-extractor and not some very basic questioning technique. “I was thinking about Dad’s birthday…”

She trailed off and left David clinging to the unfinished thought that hung in the air between them for dear life – or whatever was going to be made of the conversation, anyway. He raised his eyebrows in a reluctant invitation to continue. She just responded with her odd bug-eyed tick that was annoyingly charming for how silly it was.

“What about it?” He lamented after it became clear she wasn’t about to offer anything up freely.

“Are you going?”

“Yeah, why not?”

She frowned. “It’s kind of weird, don’t you think?”

“Exactly,” he agreed. “It’s weird. There’s something _weird_ going on and I wanna know what it is.”

Her eyes widened as she inaudibly gasped.

“Excellent point, David!” She exclaimed, pulling her phone from her purse (presumably to RSVP) and reaching up to boop his nose.

Luckily, with the advantage of standing at his full height compared to her sitting position, David managed to dodge that irritant with little effort.

“Please don’t bring Stavros.”

Alexis scoffed. “Um, David, that guy said we could have plus ones. Of course I’m bringing Stavros! Why?” She asked, blinking up at him. “Do you not have someone to bring?”

He blinked back.

“Shut up.”

“You’ve got a week, okay? I believe in you!” She called as she stood and strutted out of his apartment, head still down in the world of her phone.

She hadn’t even put her shoes on before she’d left.

Unbelievably, _unimaginably_ incorrect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyyyyyyy fam soooo for the next two months, I'm gonna be rehearsing and performing in two plays at one (terrible idea on my part, I realise as i put all the dates and times in my diary).   
> So!  
> Updates may be a little sketchy and random! I still love you and the ship and this fic, I'm just gonna be working 12+ hours a day probably ahaha so not much time for writing :( I'll do my best, though!  
> See y'all soon!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What time is it? Party time! (It's ce-le-bra-tion!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello my city's gone into lockdown so what better time to frantically finish this chapter and upload lmao!

Kyomi Otsuka ate lunch after the midday rush but before her coffee cravings kicked in about mid-afternoon so as to take full advantage of as many breaks on company time as possible, or so she’d told Patrick when he’d asked her on Monday morning.

“Why?” She asked as she set up for the day.

“Well, I was wondering if you’d join me.”

The young woman’s ebony black hair, styled dead straight and up out of her face in a sleek ponytail, swished from one shoulder over to the other as she turned her head to look up at him quickly – like when a horse uses its tail to flick flies away, Patrick thought, although more flatteringly, of course.

“Oh!” She said, cheeks still flushed pink from the morning chill. “Patrick, I’d love to!”

A weight he hadn’t realised he was carrying fell off the slope of his back and he stood a little straighter, a little prouder.

“Great!” He breathed out. “So, I’ll come down around - ”

“Two,” she told him. “And I’ll show the best slice of pizza you’ve ever had.”

**.**

**.**

Between giggles over the elastic capabilities of Gino’s mozzarella, she had agreed to be his plus one. Patrick no longer had to worry about coming across as a lonesome hermit. He just had to worry about literally everything else.

But with Antonio already knowing Johnny’s likes and dislikes, and with Elena’s intel and insight, ‘literally everything else’ was coming together quite smoothly. They didn’t need to increase security for the night (which is something Patrick hadn’t even _considered)_ so he’d only have to brief the ‘usual’ guards on the guest list and expected schedule, and the understated nature of the event meant that minimal decoration would need to be set up by the house staff.

All in all, Patrick was feeling relatively un-panicked about the whole thing.

Until the night of, that is.

As he sat in the backseat of a large black BMW that the Roses had arranged for the pair, Patrick had to force his brain away from repetitive thoughts and unhelpful brooding.

The distraction of his friend climbing into the seat beside him was very much welcome.

“Well, don’t you look smart,” she asserted, tugging on the lapel of his blue sports jacket and then smoothing it back down with a confident hand. She didn’t seem at all frazzled by the night ahead.

Smiling shyly to himself, Patrick mumbled a quiet, “Thank you,” in return as he ducked his head bashfully. It had been a while since someone had complimented him so openly. Stevie never made him feel _bad_ about himself - quite the opposite, in fact - but she also blew up in an awful red rash at any hint of sincerity inching towards their interactions. He was used to being call “hot stuff” and shoved towards the bar at the Wobbly Elm on Friday, Saturday, _and_ Sunday nights consecutively, not primped and preened at.

Kyomi, for all that she was worth, was beautiful. Patrick had known this before, but there was a difference between seeing someone in a matching grey checked pencil skirt and blazer and seeing them in their best cocktail party attire. The emerald of her satin dress sat wonderfully against her light tan, and the glossy fabric, paired with subtle hints of gold in her jewellery, most notably a small pendant hanging just below her clavicle, set her up to be a gentle beacon in the evening light.

“You look… great!”

It was Kyomi’s turn to be a little demure, though the bright lights of the city shone through the tinted windows of the car and exposed the brilliant smile she had attempted to hide behind a curtain of wavy hair.

A couple of years ago, Patrick would have mistaken this for attraction – the act of taking in someone’s appearance and appreciating it, of becoming aware of who they were.

He knew better, now. He knew _himself_ better.

Kyomi was pretty, the exact kind of pretty he’d been taught and expected to fall in love with from day one. It just wasn’t the kind of pretty he was looking for anymore, and he was very proud of that.

“So, are we getting there fashionably late or embarrassingly on time?”

Patrick grimaced. “We’re actually getting there a little _early_. I just want to double check everything is as it should be, y’know?”

Kyomi groaned. “Oh, you were one of those kids in high school that reminded the teacher about homework, weren’t you?”

Unable to argue, Patrick only laughed. “If I went to all the effort of doing it, I want them to know about it!”

“Teacher’s pet!”

“Ouch, Kyomi! Words can hurt!”

She laughed. “You know… my friends usually call me Mimi.”

“Right… should I call you that?”

“Yeah,” she replied, taking his hand and smiling at him with painted lips.

He couldn’t hold in the grin that came bursting out.

**.**

**.**

Things were chugging along pretty well as far as Patrick could see. Everyone was mingling and sipping eye-wateringly expensive champagne, the gifts table had filled up with small but no doubt terrifyingly expensive offerings, and Johnny looked remarkably happy. Even Moira, who had, at first, seemed dismayed by the lack of audience members, was laughing with a group of women – though that may have had more to do with the four empty glasses set beside her than the company she was keeping.

The only thing missing, the only _things_ missing, were Rose shaped with two plus ones tacked on the side.

Patrick didn’t miss the number of times he saw Johnny scan the room. He counted them, and kept the number tucked away in his brain to use for something he no doubt would lose the courage to plan and enact the second they walked in the door. _If_ they ever did.

Two crystal champagne flutes in hand, Kyomi trotted over from the bar and leant against the marble pillar Patrick had gravitated to.

“Cheers!”

“Thanks, Mim.”

“Oh!” She laughed. “Do I have a special nickname already?”

He shrugged. “‘Mimi’ is pretty much as long as your full name, anyway. If you’re gonna shorten it, it should be _shorter.”_

“Hmm,” Kyomi hummed in agreement, although the way she drew the sound out led Patrick to believe she may actually have been teasing him. “No ‘Patty’, then?”

He coughed up half a mouthful of champagne in a reaction he’d be ashamed of in the seediest bar in The Bronx, let alone in the parlour of his boss’ multimillion dollar mansion.

“For _so_ many reasons! No!”

Kyomi threw her head back and laughed. “Can’t blame a girl for trying!”

“I can!” Patrick coughed again, clearing his throat of the last of the dastardly bubbles. “And I will!”

She took a pointedly uneventful sip of her own drink, looking almost smug at how easily she swallowed it, and then seemed to take a breath to say something else.

She was interrupted, though, by yelling coming from the entrance hall:

“Ohh my God! Are you serious?”

“You had Mr Kastellanos placed on the ‘no entry’ list four months ago, Miss Rose.”

“Well, obviously I don’t want him on it anymore!”

“Miss R - ”

“Oh my God, just leave him outside!”

“No, David! He’s my date!”

Turning away from the commotion, eyebrows thoroughly raised, Kyomi pursed her lips to hide the smirk threatening to display itself.

“Looks like they made it!”

Patrick’s stomach dropped like a stone down a well.

“I should probably - ”

“Yeah, you should.”

“Yeah.”

He sent a wave Johnny’s way, letting him know he was taking care of it. Johnny raised a hand in reply, looking altogether unfazed and unsurprised by the ruckus.

**.**

**.**

In the foyer stood the two security guards Patrick had met a few days ago – Mikey and… someone whose name he’d forgotten, fuck – along with a pair of stubbornly aloof yet frustrated Roses and their plus ones. The only woman present was, Patrick assumed, Alexis, as ethereal and extravagant as she’d looked in all those gossip magazines Rachel had loved to read in college. By her side, David was impossible to miss.

If someone had taken a cookie cutter and replicated Johnny Rose to the smallest detail, they would have almost succeeded with this man. Unfortunately, though, they’d taken too many creative liberties in the construction of this clone and made him a little too perfect – tall and broad and… yes, Patrick was almost certain that expression on his face was known as ‘brooding’.

He was still unmistakably Johnny’s blood, though. The set of his brow was almost identical, under which familiarly sharp, dark eyes rested and stared pointedly at him.

The upward twitch of a perfectly arched eyebrow reminded Patrick of his duties tonight – none of which were ‘ogle the celebrity socialites and wax lyrical about their bone structure’.

“What’s all the ruckus out here?”

“Ohmigod, Patrick! _Please_ get these guys _off_ my _back!”_

Alexis seemed unruffled, merely mildy perturbed. Patrick, on the other hand, was almost sent flying backwards with the speed at which his head whipped up. David actually _did_ step back.

“How do you know my name?”

“ _This_ is Patrick?”

She rolled her eyes. “ _Yes_ , David! What? Did you not google him after he called?”

Alexis Rose had googled his name. Patrick loathed to think what she’d found down that disastrous rabbit hole.

Mikey, the younger but larger of the Rose’s security team, stepped forward.

“Pat, we can’t allow a banned individual onto the premises. It’s a basic security measure.”

He’d barely finished his second drink, but Patrick could already feel a headache coming on.

“It’s Johnny’s birthday, Mike…”

“The list - ”

“He’s on _my_ list,” Patrick said, with hopefully enough certainty and finality to take care of the situation. He felt black eyes boring into the side of his face.

Mikey stared him down, probably not used to being usurped by five foot eight, mostly sober business majors with their hearts in the right place, but eventually he caved.

“On your head be it,” he mumbled, and pulled his colleague (who had been remarkably silent and unhelpful throughout this whole ordeal) back out the door to their positions.

“It will be!” Patrick promised, although he hoped he wouldn’t have to make good on it tonight – or ever, to be honest.

Alexis smiled at him and held out a hand that Patrick might have awkwardly taken if not for the infamous Mr Kastellanos striding away and yanking her with him. She waved back to the group as the couple disappeared into the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses.

David breezed by with a tall man on his arm, a short glance sent Patrick’s way but nothing much else. Perhaps he heard a quiet “Ass,” mumbled under someone’s breath, but he chose to believe that was about Stavros and not himself.

The plus one – a Sebastien Raine according to David’s RSVP – hadn’t seemed to have gotten the memo that the hallway scene was done and people were moving one. He planted his feet right in front of Patrick’s.

“You have such an unassuming power to you. I’d love to photograph it.”

The man’s voice was like a cheese grater against his ears. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Patrick heard his high school drama teacher cry out “Glottal fry!” and collapse in a heap in the middle of their auditorium.

“Oh, um, I’m not very photogenic.”

“That’s where the most beautiful pictures come from.”

Patrick was pretty sure that was high class bullshit from the faecal factory, a hunch further cemented by the oddly soft hand placing itself on his jaw, but he wasn’t going to call it out. Couldn’t. Something in the strained vacancy of the man’s gaze glued his mouth shut and left him gasping for air at the same time.

His eyes flicked over to their only witness, dressed head to toe in monochrome and looking just as uncomfortable as Patrick felt. 

“Okay! Come on! He said he doesn’t want to!”

“Oh, I never said that.”

Everyone stopped.

What. The fuck. Was going on in his brain right now? He asked any long-suffering deity listening, because Patrick himself certainly didn’t know.

David tugged at his date’s limp arm, more desperate than ever to get away.

Patrick watched something dangerous alight in Sebastien’s eyes as he turned to leave and gulped, chin still burning where those velvety fingertips has pressed into his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if there are any glaring errors, pls let me know so I can correct - my proof reading has much to be desired atm lol Stress TeeEm

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! 
> 
> I love to hear people's thoughts and opinions on what's going on in the story and what they think will/want to happen next! I have a structure planned out, but there's always room for extra bits and pieces - That's the beauty of writing and publishing something incrementally! 
> 
> Sometimes you guys pick up on stuff that blows my mind and whole plot arcs are born in the comments sdfghj also seeing people interact really helps w my motivation
> 
> Anyway! Love ya! See you again soon!


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